


my beginning and end, started with you

by BySpaceByTime



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst, Archangels, Canon Compliant, Canon timeline is for suckers, Character Death, Darkness, Dorks in Love, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fallen Angels, Falling In Love, I'm Warning ya'll, Mutual Pining, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prophecy, Prophetic Dreams, Psychopaths In Love, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soft Michael Langdon, Some stuff happens way later, Theology, They're minor but still, Tragedy, Warlocks, Witches, light - Freeform, maybe not that slow of a burn but it isn't happening right away, okay, some stuff happens earlier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-04 16:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16350392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySpaceByTime/pseuds/BySpaceByTime
Summary: A demon and an angel fall in love, and the world pays dearly for it.





	1. I

**_Prologue_ **

_**XII.** _

_**2011 December** _

The sky opened with a crack of lightning, a bright blinding light that illuminated the darkness all around.  There were no stars in the sky tonight for it rained and poured, flooding the sewers and the street drains.

 

The trees creaked and moaned, like the floorboards of an old forlorn house. Her house.  Home.  Her room smelled heavily of dust and lavender, must and lotus. She had bottles of flowers, made from old wine and liquor bottles covered in paint and colorful tape. Little lights decorated her wall, dark and dim and blue. The ones downstairs in the hallway were a bright green and red, as well as the ones in the front of the house on the roof.  But mama had made sure to decorate the tree with white lights instead, gleaming with a golden hue.  And on top of the Christmas tree sat a pretty little angel, an heirloom that´d been in the family for a while.  It was a speck of pale on the deep green sea of branches and thin leaves, a bell in its porcelain hands.

 

And all was silent in the house.  Father was probably in the living room, watching one of his late night shows or news programs, a Corona or a bottle of Vodka in his hand.  Mama was in the room, asleep, weary and wary of the moment father decided to go back upstairs, back into the room with her.

 

Mallory is twelve.  Pale and petite, thin lipped and doe-eyed, dull brown hair. She has her back toward the mirror on her vanity, but her face is looking directly at it. Tears trail down her cheeks, lips quivering, hands trembling as she traced the strange lines on her back.  It was like a tattoo, a permanent mark. Something alive beneath her skin, ready to break free.  She’d always known she was different, Mama always told her so, and so did grandma. That she was different from all the other girls, that she was something special, born from the blood of an old line.  Father always grimaced when they spoke thusly, a dark shadow casting over his face that’d make her mother cower and shut up.

 

Wings were imprinted on her back.  She could see the feathers, the bones that shaped and formed down her spine, like a dove. _I’m not special,_  she thought, paralyzed with fear.  _I’m a monster._

 

She hears the floorboards creak again, hears the drunken steps of her father, hears the rusted hinges on the door of the master bedroom.  Hears her mother cry.

* * *

 

_**XIV.** _

_**2013 December** _

When she sleeps at night, she dreams of falling into the earth, dreams of the mud and ash and grass and fire swallowing her up. Feels the heat brush against her skin.  And as she falls into the earth the stars and the skies grow smaller, out of reach.  She remembers seeing the red sun, and the golden clouds, and a thousand different skies and moons and stars and worlds.  The memory, the dream, leaves her wistful and lonely. Yearning for something more than what the cold world has to offer.

 

The bright red and white sirens blind her, the smell of ash and smoke infiltrating the air, her lungs.  Mother sat on the lawn, shoulders hunched, will and pride broken. Her face was red, eyes teary, as she watched their house go up in flames.  They danced beautifully, wavering in the wind, growing brighter and stronger.  She could smell her roses and flowers, burning flesh and dusty curtains, the decorations her mother had worked so hard to put up this Christmas.  Just another California fire, the local news would say.

 

Mallory knew that for the lie it was.  She looked at her hands, the fresh blood that now figuratively stained them.  ‘ _You have blood on your hand’s girl’_ , grandma whispered into her ear, ready to take her away to her aunt Val.

 

She had loved her father once, still did. It was an accident, all an accident.  It had just happened, and she couldn’t stop it. He had cursed her, had called her vile things, had made claims that did not ring true. ‘ _You are not mine! You’re not mine!’_  he had howled. She doesn’t know when she started arguing with her father.  Perhaps when she’d nearly tripped over the bottles of beer he had laying around or inhaled the foul cigarette smoke that made her choke, or when he tried to grab her, tried to hurt her.  Ever since she’d turned fourteen, she’d been butting heads with him, filled with a youthful rage and indignation.  A fire that burned inside her and manifested into reality. Setting her father and with him the house a flame.  Cleansing the walls of their unholiness. As they say: if walls could talk.  But these walls would be reduced to ash.  Even the crosses and paintings of Jesus and angels.  None of that had saved her mother from the endless nights of torture, from wandering hands.  It didn’t save her father either. She doesn’t remember how she made it outside, doesn’t remember panicking and running for her life.  One moment she was in the encompass of raging flames and the next outside, crashing right into her screaming mother.

 

Suddenly, the roof caved in, feeding the fire.

 

Grandma pulled her away from the sight, dressed in her long black skirts and white crisp shirt. With the gray and white hair of old age, but for all that she was old, she had a sense of youth to her, immortality.

 

That was the last time she’d seen her mama, a crying broken shell of a woman. “It’s best you two stay apart for a while.  We don’t need another incident.”.

* * *

 

_**XVI.** _

_**February 2017** _

She always thought black had been her favorite color.  As a child, mother always dressed her in white.  Pristine white socks, and white church dresses.  Pretty white ribbons in her hair.   And that subjugation had made her yearn for darkness, for the opposite of what she was. She thought, that now that she was away from her mother, she could freely wear what she pleased, but the color white has grown on her over the years.  And she finds that, despite being so far away from her mother, white is the only thing she wants to wear.  Is drawn to it, in a way. Like a moth to a flame.

 

Grandma’s house reminds her of a bastardized version of an antebellum house from down south.  It has about four acres of fresh green grass surrounding it, along with those tall wooden fences you can find in a ranch.  She even has a horse, a pretty stallion with a black coat that is named Darkangel.

 

¨California is not our home,¨ grandma tells her, as they sit on the wooden porch swing that gently swayed back and forth. ¨I bought this house because it reminded me of our true home.  Our roots lay down south.  And that’s where you’re gonna go someday.  When you’re older.¨

 

Grandma is a witch and so is aunt Val, though not powerful ones, at least not as powerful as the Supreme.  Mother isn’t a witch at all, lacks that generational magic that’s been in their blood since the days of old Salem, but Mallory has it. It skipped her mother, whom could have had the potential for it, and passed down to Mallory whose blood sang with potential. In two years time, she’d be gone again, but this time for good.  Into another state entirely, to live in a school full of strangers and outcast alike. The girl-child felt more like a feather blowing in the wind, than an actual person.  As if there was some other force, moving her about like a piece on a chess board, putting her where they feel she needs to be. It is God, mother would probably tell her, and mother would probably be right.  At night, she thinks about tales her mother used to weave, and the stories she read from the bible. Of archangels in chariots and God descending from heaven with a flaming sword and a righteous fury.  The Second Coming and the End of Days, fairytales and nightmares.

 

She shakes the thoughts away, focusing on the setting sun, listening as the wind chimes chimed their lovely song.

 

Mallory enjoys this time of the day, the golden time of day as some call it. When the wind settles and the sun sets on the horizon, painting the sky a rich hue of gold and blue and violet.  The colors cast its beauty onto the clouds as they drift by, and it’s like she’s watching the gates of heaven open up.

 

Her sixteenth birthday has long passed, and as she grows older, her powers grow stronger, and the prints on her back spread, across and downward, like wildfire.  It’s to the point she covers her arms up with concealer and wears sweaters in the summer.

 

Deep down, beneath the gentle smile and wide innocent eyes, she knows what she is.  She knows.

* * *

 

_**XVIII.** _

_**2018 December** _

School had always been a problem for her, and for the brief few months that she’d been there, she thought Miss Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Women would be a problem too.  There was always a problem in elementary, middle school, and high school, and so the academy hadn’t seemed much different at first.

 

The earliest and fondest memory she has of school is Ms.Merryweather’s class, at the old preschool.  She remembers her mother taking her there, the red wooden stairs that led to the glass double doors. It always smelled like apples and cinnamon in there, like Christmas, and ironically enough that was Ms.Merryweather’s favorite holiday.  The birth of Jesus, she would tell all the little children who came.  That it was he, the lord and light, that they should praise and thank.

 

The woman had been sweet and small, with auburn hair and pretty blue eyes. She loved butterflies, especially blue butterflies, and wore them on her clothes and had them on the broaches in her hair. She also wore a wooden cross, rested neatly between her chest.  A pious woman, like mama.

 

Preschool is a time of innocence when children still have it and have not truly become aware of the world slowly falling apart around them and the world, in turn, has not corrupted them.

 

That’s what the coven was like, but more real.  Because every girl and woman enrolled are very aware of the real world, have heartache and stories full of woe, but are still good and true.  

 

At least Mallory likes to think they are, likes to think the best of people.  They are more alike than they are unlike, for the most part, having the same curses and blessings of being a witch.

 

The years have flown by quickly, and now she is twenty. Old enough to vote and go to war but not old enough to drink. Grandma and Aunt Val had sent her to the academy, to finally leave the cesspool that was California. And yet Mallory found herself going back.  For years they have kept her away from her mother, and here she is, on a bus transit, steadily making her way back to the woman who has way too many mistakes beneath her name.  Who kept a man in their life who was both emotionally and physically draining them.  Grandma blames it on stupidity, Mallory blames it on love. In the end, it was the fire that brought about her father’s demise. And deep down inside, Mallory still mourned for him, loved him, for all that he was a monster.  She was too, in a way.

 

Mother has written her, hundreds of words writ in ink and tears, blood and sorrow and death. So much death.  Mallory could feel it, could smell it through the thin lined paper.  She had to see her mother, couldn’t go on ignoring her forever.  Even if only for an hour, even if just to cry and yell and cast blame and judgment. She had to see her mother before it was too late.

 

By the time she arrives, however, to a small green apartment in the bay area, she finds her mother collapsed on the floor.  Barely alive.  The house stinks of death and cigarette buds and old bottles of beer.  Depression is a contagious disease.  It had wrought havoc on her father and now her mother.  No longer was she the religious woman she had been in Mallory’s youth, taking the little girl to Sabbath school and Bible studies, speaking of God and Jesus and covering her walls with beautiful portraits of the Madonna, the blessed virgin Mary.   Always speaking of angels, beautiful angels descending from the heavens. That woman was long gone.

 

Mallory calls the paramedics, and it’s like she’s at the burning house again, but this time she is the one with the red face and eyes full of tears. She sees her father bursting into flames, sees the Christmas tree come alight, the smell of pine in the air.  Hears screams, and realizes that the screams are her own.

* * *

She’d always hated the doctor as a child because people always died there. Everyone was sick and sad and serious.  Being cut into, injected with one thing or the other and told dire news.  

 

Mother was weak and dying.  Mallory could see and smell it, taste it in the air. The kidneys were failing, the lungs were covered in tar, and the mind was slowly shutting down.  

 

“She doesn’t have much time,” the doctor had told her. “We will do all we can but…” he had looked at her with something akin to pity, but she didn’t need his pity.

 

She sat there, watching the heart monitor more than her mother, waiting for it to flatline, breaking down and shuttering with each beep.

 

She grabbed her mother’s hand, leaning down to place a kiss upon her brow.  Mallory remembered when her mother used to tell her stories, used to tell her how special she was, and who she’d become someday.  My little angel, mother would call her.

 

The world was moving at a constant all around her, and yet there was no time to be found in section 7. The hours seemed to lapse together, no longer waiting for her to catch up.  

 

She didn’t care if grandma thought mother was stupid or if aunt Val thought her mother was too toxic for Mallory to be around.  This was her mother, the women who gave her life, who loved her despite everything, everything that they’d been through.

 

Beep, beep…the sound was deafening.  Her mother was covered in tubes and IV lines and god knows what else. Pale and gaunt, already a corpse. The sight was sickening. She let out a small cry covering her mouth to hide it. Beep, beep, beep…beeeeep.  The sound went on, no longer prolonging the inevitable.

 

Mallory couldn’t hold it in anymore, clenching her stomach, as a pain wracked her body.  She once heard that it was possible to die from a broken heart. Perhaps the nurse or doctor would return only to find two corpses.

 

She heard loud footsteps against the hard floor, heard the curtains fly open. Words were being spoken, perhaps by Dr.Nelson or someone else.  The words fell upon deaf ears as she cradled her mother, how one would cradle a small babe, and wept.

 

“…It’s time to go. Ma’am, ma’am?”

 

“…you need to leave, there is nothing you can do.  We need to revive her, maybe she’ll have a fighting chance if we do, but you need to leave.”  Reviving her mother would not help.  The woman was dead, everything had shut down the moment her brain gave in.

 

Mallory feels the doctor grab her lower arm, but she shakes him off. “No!” she shouts.  The mere thought of leaving ignited her anger like flames. She looked the man in his eyes. “Go away! Leave me with my mother! Let me mourn!” her voice was haggard and rasp, but commanding.

 

Mallory waited for him to oppose her, to call security and have her dragged away.  But instead, he-he nods, eyes blank and face devoid of any emotion or self-thought, before walking away. Like a robot or a slave.

 

She doesn’t pay much attention to it.  Instead, she presses her head against her mother’s forehead and thinks of life and light.

 

The dead doe popped into her mind.  She remembered how she healed it, how its bones had snapped back into place and its wounded flesh had healed, life brought anew. How it stood up on four strong legs as if it had just been in the lulls of sleep instead of the lull of death.

 

“I’m going to help you mama, and you’re going to be okay.”

 

Mallory ignored how her mother’s skin was gradually growing cold, gripping her mother’s face, placing her forehead against it. She concentrated hard, as she threaded her fingers through her mother’s hair, whispering soothing words. Mallory felt a warmth inside of her, a warmth that wasn’t there before. It was powerful, like a ray of sun had cast its glow inside her.  The sun is what she thought of, as power flowed through her blood and into her very palms.  Thought of how the sun gave to the trees and flowers she so loved.  It gave the world food, and air, and life.  It protected them from the biting cold, from the strong grip of death. Her body began to tingle, began to emanate a bright light she was oblivious to.

 

“Please, please, please…” she pleaded for what felt like hours. And then her mother’s skin wasn’t so cold anymore, and the heart monitor fell back into its rhythmic beeping.

 

Suddenly, the corpse beneath her sucked in a deep guttural breath, as if absorbing the energy that was bestowed.  And then, death no longer lingered in the curtained rooms, at least not in this one. Mother was still in a deep sleep, but not the cold and cruel kind, the safe kind, the alive kind.

 

Mallory opened her eyes, despite the fact that she didn’t remember closing them, and looked upon an amazed face.  A blonde haired boy, from the next room over.  She’d forgotten about the neighboring patient, had barely recognized him when she came rushing in to see her mother after hours of waiting in the hall.

 

He stood there, in his hospital gown, holding onto some bandaged wound on his side, blue eyes wide and in awe.  There was something else there too, fear perhaps, a child-like fear. And how odd that was.  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long while, for their eyes spoke a thousand words their mouths could barely form.  Her hands shook in trepidation.  He saw, he saw what she did.  He knew, he knew what she was.


	2. II

**_Chapter 1_ **

****  
  
_**2018 December** _ **  
**

There was something odd about him, that much she could tell. And for that reason alone she stayed clear of him, keeping to the room her mother was in. He moved about and talked like a boy trapped in a man’s body so much that it was unsettling to behold. It was the way he talked and moved, a childlike innocence that wasn’t wholly good. A danger that stirred in the air, his mere presence causing the hairs on her neck to stand.

 

In two weeks time, her mother would be released and Mallory could take her home. But only in two weeks, two long weeks.  Her mother was in a delirious state, slipping in and out of consciousness, but despite that, she slept with a content smile on her face, seemingly at peace in her stupor. A decade had been taken off her life, the white hairs that’d peppered her brown locks gone, wrinkles are gone and skin softer than cream.  No longer did her skin sheen with a sickly glow, and no longer did she smell like rot and decay. Mother looked like the woman she’d been when Mallory was little more than a girl. Beautiful and pious.

 

The young woman had made her calls with her family, the little she had, grandma being the most livid out of all of them; for leaving the coven to come back to California, and the elderly woman only calmed when Mallory swore by heaven and earth that she’d return once her mother was settled.

 

They’d get mother situated at grandmother’s house, where grandma could nurse her back to health and strength.  Grandma Eve has yet to physically visit the hospital but she claims she’ll pick them up once they’re released, but Mallory yearned for some company, for someone to talk to.  More lonesome than usual.

 

During the day, Dr.Nelson and a few nurses moved in and out of the room, taking blood test and doing physical exams on her mother, trying to figure out the phenomenon that was her mother’s rejuvenated health.  Whenever they did come in, they looked at her like she a suspect, eyes hooded in suspicion while asking her one question or another. Time was content with dragging by slowly, especially at night.

 

Tonight was a cool California night, with light breezes and rustling leaves.  Every sound was magnified at night, the ticking of the clock, the beeping of machines and the bouncing of a small red ball, the size of an apple.

 

The boy next over bounced it almost every night, and she could see the pacing of his pale feet beneath the wide curtains.  Mallory wondered if he ever felt cold walking on the freezing floor with no socks own every night. The sounds robbed her of sleep, especially his, and it didn’t help that she slept on a small couch as stiff as a board.

 

Where had he even gotten the ball from?  Perhaps one of the nurses had given it to him.  They always fawned over him, marveling at how kind and sweet he is.  _“Kids his age aren’t like that anymore.”_  kids like her, they meant. The outcast, the lonely, the forgotten.  

 

He’s been through so much, the poor thing, they all think and she doesn’t question why she hears their thoughts.  Perhaps another blessing or curse of being a witch.

 

She’s been through stuff too, she’s been hurt to even if she doesn’t have any physical wounds to show for it. What happened to him anyway?  She didn’t dare ask any of the gossiping nurses, afraid of what they might think, and that wasn’t her way besides.  Grandma had taught her better than that.

 

The ball bounced on, him chuckling and giggling every so often.  It was like he was bating her, tempting her to say something to him.  A trap and she was slowly falling for it.  He had seen what she did, knew her for what she was and she knew little about him in return. It made her feel vulnerable.

 

Maybe I should contact Cordelia, she thought, weary and drained. The woman had an air of motherliness that’d been lacking in Mallory’s life for a while, had a way about her that soothed and calmed the soul, that made you feel protected and wanted.  The fact that she was Supreme didn’t hang above the academy like an unforgiving cloud, and Cordelia didn’t want it to be that way anyhow.   The woman was a mother at heart, yearned for children, Mallory could see it, the want and desire flowing off of her in waves, and the girls at the coven were her surrogate children. Both a weakness and a strength.  Cordelia hadn’t even wanted her to leave in the first place, caused by a deep-seated fear for whatever dwelled in California, but respected Mallory’s wishes.

 

Thump went the ball, tick went the clock, and amidst it all his light childlike chuckle. The sounds stretched on and on, snatching her from her thin grasp on sleep whenever she managed to attain it.

 

The ball emits another loud thump, followed by a high pitched ringing from the rubber.  Having had enough, Mallory stands, falling for the bate.  She yanks back the white curtains, and it resonates in both rooms.  Despite her better judgment, she steps into the other room, and all is still. Quiet, how she had wanted it to be.  All she had wanted.

 

The boy stopped all movement at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide and mouth slack. Mallory had forgotten how beautiful he was in all the three days she’s avoided him.  When he had caught her, her mind had blanked, and she doesn’t remember much after that.

 

The red ball rolled to her feet, and she tentatively picked it up before it popped in her hands, sizzling and bubbling for her fingers were as hot as flames.  He looked frightened to see her. “I’m sorry!” he said, worried. Like a child, she couldn’t help but pick that up off of him.  The way he said it…she was suddenly filled with guilt, her anger dissolving into thin air.  Perhaps he was mentally ill or challenged, maybe he didn’t mean to be so irksome, maybe he just couldn’t help it.

 

He put his head down, fretfully clenching and unclenching his gown, uneased. She felt uneasy too.

 

“I-it’s okay. I’m sorry about your ball.” she smiled, trying to convince herself more than him. “ Could you please be a little quieter? I’m trying to sleep and I’ve had a really long day today and…” words became lost on her.

 

He shook his head firmly, with the enthuse of a six-year-old child, his fear suddenly disappearing, a wide set smile on his face. Then he crept toward her, hand reaching out for the deflated ball. “Can I have it back please?” his voice was smooth.

 

She frowned in confusion. “But-”

 

His hand gripped hers, as cold as death and the touch shocked her.  The hot sticky rubber folded in her palms.  He towered over her like a giant, and his eyes darkened, a shadow cast over his face.  Something was happening but she didn’t know what. She couldn’t move, stuck in place, mesmerized by his eyes. She couldn’t even breathe.

 

A thick smoke rose in the air from their joined hands, so cold it burned.  Nothing burns like the cold. She could feel something forming in her hand, but it wasn’t entirely of her own doing.  With a sudden clarity, she realized it was him to, realized he’d ignited something in her blood that caused the ball to do so.  The rubber stuck back together, rising with helium. Time itself was rewinding, the clock was going backward, and the ball was reforming in their hands, until it back to the point before it’s destruction.

 

He held her gaze in their timeless plane.  Time was the known conqueror of man, time was never promised nor was time on anyone’s side.  But it was on his, for he’d conquered it right before her eyes.  This boy, this man, this…witch?

 

He took the ball from her hand, long elegant fingers gracing her small dainty palms. He loomed over her like a giant, casting his shadow on the wall.

 

The moment he stepped back she ran from the room, closing back the curtains. She let out deep shaky breaths before collapsing on the stiff couch, falling into a fitful nightmare.

* * *

_Ms.Merryweather takes them outside in the back; into the nice little garden she’d started up.  There were lotus and sunflowers and pretty white roses.  She even had rows of red tomatoes, onions, and corn, and in the far back near the whitewashed fence, there was a fig tree, branches heavy with ripe fruit ready to be picked._

_She had gathered them around her wooden table, covered with netlike cages filled with butterflies.  They fluttered about, beating their golden, brown, white wings._

_The children laughed and played and danced and sang songs of summer. So many faces, molding together, white blurs blowing away in the wind like dust. Oblivious to the little girl under the fig tree.  There was a dead raven there, broken and twisted, its entrails spilling onto the green grass.  The sight was daunting to behold, and yet she looked on at the morbid sight.  She’d been watching the bird for a while, when it was alive that is.  It was the same bird that’d always ventured into the backyard of the preschool, picking at the crops and fruit.  Sometimes Mallory would beg her mother for a piece of bread every morning, just so she could break off crumbs and feed it.  When she’d told her father about it and pointed the creature out, he’d chuckled, telling her that it’d pick her eyes out one day if she wasn’t careful around it.  But still, she persisted on, because its wings were black, smooth and pretty, soft to the touch, as soft as cream and it let her pet him. Not once did he ever try to poke her with his beak.  He was a lonely bird, a nice bird, like her._

_“Mallory?  Mally sweetheart, come back where I can see you,” the words came out slowed and dazed.  Everything was moving slow motion now, except for the little girl named Mallory.  The child kneeled down into the wet grass, dirting her white gown. Her fingers brushed the dark feathers, as she lifted the rodent up with care.  The blood was sticky and moist on her small palms, but this did not deter her actions. A being possessed her then, a being made entirely of light.  It’s always been there, whispering in her ear, guiding her.  Its voice was like thunder, a thousand voices come together or a choir whenever it spoke to her, but now it was as quiet as the night._

_It’s broken, she thought.  Like a toy.  Fix the toy Mallory, the voice responded.  And she did, with a force she hadn’t known she possessed until then.  The bones snapped back, the flesh threaded back together until there were no wounds left, as if they were never there, to begin with. Life kissed the ravens black eyes, and it burst out of her hands into the blue sky, leaving black feathers in its wake._

_“Mallory!” the voice became more lull as everything around the girl shifted.  Everything was going backward.  Ms.Merryweather’s horrified face became smooth and calm again, her footsteps retracing themselves back to the table with the other children.  The songs, the laughs, the chatter was reversed.  The sun reverted back east, into the clouds and indigo sky.  The grass turned into old floorboards, with walls closing in on her, and it was dead silent.  This wasn’t home, not her home.  It was too dark and dreary to be her home, the air too thick and suffocating.  To forbidden and forlorn, cursed and foul, and most of all timeless.  The light was not here anymore, nor was god._

_She was in a long hallway, and at the end sat a boy.  Well, not really.  He looked older and tall, but she saw what was within that grown shell.  A small boy, scared and alone, crying.  He sat on the floor, knees to his chest and head buried in his arms._

_Mallory began to take tentative steps forward, but every step seemed to echo off the walls.  He heard them, head snapping up to look at her.  He watched her with the eyes of a hawk, frigid and brittle, emotional and cruel.  She kneeled down before him, brushing his golden hair with her fingers.  The little girl smiled a sweet smile, oblivious to the darkness that was stirring, waiting to eat her alive._

_“Mallory?” she doesn’t recall giving him her name._

_“Don’t cry,” she said. “You don’t need to cry.”_

_“…w-why not? Nobody wants me, they all think I’m a monster. I am.” he put his head down, more tears spilling forth. She wiped them away._

_“I don’t think you’re a monster. I just think you’re scared.  People do bad things when they’re scared.”  Mallory had burned her own father alive, but only because she was afraid of him, of the things he did and of the things he said._

_He placed his hand above hers, ever so gently, as if he was afraid she’d break or disappear. His eyes were a sad, sad blue, and rimmed red.  He began to shake._

_“Go away.” it was low and haggard at first, but still dangerous. **“Go away!”**  she jumped back at the force of his voice, confused and hurt._

_She did go away, running down the long winding hallways. The last thing she saw before she ran was a shadow looming over him, a beast, and his eyes were no longer blue but black._

Mallory woke with a sudden jolt, body covered in sweat.  Her hair and white dress stuck to her skin, breathing wan. The memory, it was faint and brief.  The last time she’d had it she’d been six years old, and when she’d woken from that plane she pushed it to the far reaches of her mind.  Now it’s boiled to surface again, because of him. A comely face, hidden by the shadows, fair of hair and blue of eyes.  Had she ever seen a pair of eyes so sad on a face so young?  On mine, she thought, sorrowfully.

That boy, he wasn’t just any boy.  He was something else entirely, more than what he appeared to be. Stay away from him, a voice whispered.  And perhaps she was better off listening to it, but where she was once wary of his presence she was now curious about it.  Who was he? What happened to him?  Was he like her or just some male witch? The questions replayed in her head like a broken record.  

She got up off the couch, leaving for the cafeteria.  It is there that she sees him again, the red ball heavy on her mind.  He looks up from his meal of french toast and syrup that the kitchen was serving hot and fresh, and smiles at her.  “Hi Mallory!” he exclaimed excitedly, patting the seat next to him, beckoning her to come over.  It feels all too familiar despite just having recalled him from a faint memory or dream from long ago.

Mallory smiles at him, uncertain of the decision she is about to make and goes to take the seat that he offers.  And then she wonders how he knows her name.

* * *

_**2015-2016** _

 

_**Sloth.i** _

All Michael had seen was black and red when he did it, the darkness of his conscious and the red of her lifeblood.  She laid there at his feet, splayed out on the floor, horror frozen on her plump face, throat slit open.  And he felt…nothing. The feeling of guilt, the feeling of remorse wasn’t there.  He wanted to feel sad, he wanted to desperately but…who was she to him?  He didn’t know her, not really.  She was just some woman grandma paid to watch him.  Willa always told him what to do, and one time she called him a little brat, a freak when she’d found one of the presents.  When she held him, her touch was not gentle like grandma’s, it was rough and sometimes left a bruise on his pale skin.  And besides, it wasn’t him who did it, not really, only because he doesn’t truly remember doing it, and grandma had claimed to like the gifts he gave her besides.

 

Of course, even as a child, he knew she’d covered up every gift, including the big one. A suicide, the reports would say, but he knew the truth.  Was proud of it, marveled at it.  That woman was rude to him, unkind and said and thought horrible things about him.  Had called him a monster, and for all that he was one, oh did he hate to be called one.  She deserved all the pain, all the horror.  And just the thought of welding that power over her, to hold her life, her faith in his hands gave him a thrill.  A lust for power that couldn’t be tamed.

 

It was only at night when he realized how abnormal that was. To feel that way. And what truly broke him, was not the fact that he made others weep and cry because they didn’t really matter, but when he made grandma cry.  She doesn’t know it, but he hears her.  The muffled moans, the tears.  Sees how he’s draining her with every kill, every time she has to get on her knees in the dirt and hide every little secret with the roses she once loved.  The smell of death was rich throughout the house, stronger than any rose, and the floorboards were no stranger to blood nor the soap, water, and weary knees that cleaned it up.

 

Now grandma is afraid of him, of his form, his size.  Something not of his own doing.  He was just as afraid as she was, and yet she now treated him like everyone else.  Like a freak, a monster.

 

His grandma’s pain is what makes him want to change.  When he looks in the mirror every night he tries to see what others see, tries to find the darkness in his pale eyes, so that he may snatch it out, but all he sees is a weak, weak boy. He traces his lips, runs his fingers through his messy blonde hair, and gazes hard and long into his own eyes.  And wonders whom they truly belong to.

* * *

Grandma was coming out of her room less and less now. The dishes began piling up in the kitchen, the laundry undone and the roses slowly rotted away. So he tends to everything while she wallows away in her cigarettes and jin.

 

He waters the roses in the backyard and cuts the grass in the front.  He washes the dishes and wipes the fine china off nicely just how grandma likes it.  He even tries to make her food so she can eat.  Michael once tried to fry some eggs for her, despite the fact that that had turned into a disaster.  And one time he sliced up some fruit and put some yogurt in a bowl because he knew how much she loved yogurt and fruit together, the sweet and sour taste complementing each other. But every meal, good or bad, was left untouched. He’d set it out in front of her bedroom door and call  _‘grandma’_ , and waited but she’d never come out.

 

It was all his fault.  He had scared her, had tried to choke the life out of her.  But he didn’t mean to.  Something had told him to do it, had made him, and his mind went blank and before he knew it he was hovering over her.  He’d been a slave in his own body, not entirely in control of everything. He swore to himself he’d never touch her again, despite every impulse that drove him to, despite the darkness that whispered in his ear and clouded his mind.

 

Michael wanted to be normal, wanted to be a good boy, a good grandson. Wanted to have pets, all kinds of pets and not have the urge to harm them. Wanted to talk to people and not imagine how they’d look dead.  Hated himself, hated what was inside of him that made him so.  If only he could drive it away, whatever it was, if only he could be good. He could be, and he would try.

 

And so for weeks, he cleaned up around the house, never invading grandma’s space.  She just needed time.  He dumped trays of food and replaced it with fresh food in hopes that one of these days she’d come out and eat it, tell him how good it is even if it really isn’t, praise his effort. Tell him how much she loved him, and he’d hold her so tight, and he would change.  He promised himself he would.  

 

And then one day, he found her bedroom door cracked open, the food thrown across the floor, and grandma gone.

 

He called out her name, screamed himself hoarse for hours and hours. Searched every room, ran outside and asked every pass byer if they’d seen his grandma.  They’d look at him, as if he was mad, insane, and walked away ignoring his plea for help.  He had to remind himself then, of his promise to not hurt anyone in his desperate search.  All until he went to the house, the voice had told him to go there, and despite his better judgment he did.  And he found her, but he was too late. To late.

 

He holds her body in his arms, ashen and cold. Smells her perfume, feels her skin and begs for her to come back to him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”  _I’ll stop it, I’ll change,_  “I’m so sorry, come back. Grandma, grandma…” he weeps, and weeps.  Tries to reverse time, but there is no time here. Just endless darkness overlapping the other.

 

“The spirits in this house can’t be seen unless they want to be seen.”

 

Michael meets Ben, and perhaps that is what he’d been missing in his life, a father and the man gladly takes that role.  He saw something in Michael, that others didn’t see or maybe Ben was just using him. That was what the voice told him.  That grandma used him, and left the moment she couldn’t control him anymore, the moment he became powerful, and that Ben would use him too.  Michael doesn’t listen, for he is desperate for love, and takes it wherever he can find it.

 

They play games like chess and monopoly, candy land, checkers and cards. Michael wins each and every one, the games are simple and easy to triumph in. It was all about strategy and logic, beating your competitor at their own game, and of course, a personal genius that not all could attain.  Ben would praise him, would ruffle his hair and pat him on the back.  “Good job Michael,” son, he wants to say but never goes that far.  Because Ben was not his father, for all that he came from Ben’s wife.  But the voice tells him, along with the other spirits, that it is Tate Langdon.  Grandma’s son, Michael’s father.

 

He feels comfortable at the house, his own little sanctuary from the world that was raging outside.  He buried grandma outside in the back, as Ben instructed, but she never appeared for him.  No matter how much he called for her.  Though he stays in hopes that one day, grandma will come out for him.

 

He wanders the house, learns and memorizes every nook and cranny, avoids the dark places that Ben warned him about.  They call to him, the ghost of madmen, the dark voice constantly urging him to follow, but Michael ignores all of them.  If he wants grandma back he has to be good, he has to be kind and gentle like a grandson ought to be.  

* * *

Michael, being the curious creature he is, goes to his father’s old room.  The spirits lead him, intent, filled with purpose after so long. The room is stale, even the covers, and the floor dips when he walks in. He goes through the closet and drawers and finds paint and old clothes that his father might have worn once, and a black rubber mask.  It was smooth to the touch, and the very concept was mesmerizing. He could smell the deeds, the horrors that were committed behind this mask, even his own conceiving.  

 

When he does finally meet his father by happenstance… to say the least, it wasn’t what he’d expected, it wasn’t what he had wanted.  The way the man had talked to him, the rage, the anger, the hatred in his eyes.  It put a fear in Michael, that sunk to the marrow in his bones.  The fear of rejection.  Grandma had planted that seed and tended to the weeds, but Tate had made them flourish and spread like wildfire.

 

Ben comes, keeps Tate at bay as he spills his poison and leaves.  The fatherly man looks down at him with pity, a sight Michael couldn’t bear to see and so he threw himself into the old dusty covers, tears stinging at his eyes.

 

He laid there for hours, simmering in dejection and defeat, and an anger of his own rising to the surface.  Michael thought of the many ways he could hurt Tate, how the man had hurt him.  Thought of how he could extinguish the mans very soul, could make it go up in flames and shatter right before his hateful eyes. Turn his spirit as black as his unforgiving heart.  What had Michael done to him? What had the boy done to anyone?

 

The house was filled with nothing but darkness, that would sooner consume him than nurture him.  He could feel the spirits crawling to the crust of the house, rising from beneath the thick layers of blackness.  They were coming for him, for he was too weak of mind and heart to keep them away.  So weak. And then, then they were gone, another presence replacing them.  It made his eyes flutter open and the dark voice let out a low guttural sound, hissing like a snake.

 

The presence, the feeling, it was light. Yes light, and it smelled sweet and fresh and pure, unlike the decay that usually lingered in the air around.  A speck of white in the never-ending darkness, it grew closer and closer, until it hovered above him, dipping onto the bed.  A soft, gentle hand ran over his head, small and dainty yet so powerful he shuddered beneath.  He turned over in the bed, to look upon a small girl, no older than five.

 

“Why are you crying?” she asked, and meant it, waited for an answer.  Was she lost?  How did she get here?  She must be lost. Outside the room, the air grew tense and deadly.  The spirits and whatever else that dwelled in the house did not like her here.

 

“Because I’m sad,” he answered, sitting up on the bed.  It was nighttime now, and yet her light was as bright as the sun. She was here, in front of him, but not really, that much he could tell.  Her body, her real body, laid somewhere else and she has traveled far from it.  “H-how did you get here?”

 

She lightly shrugged. “I don’t know.” then frowned, rubbing her chin in contemplation before wearing a sad smile. “I heard crying, so I followed it, and I found you.  Maybe you called me.  Well, I’m here, do you want something?”  _no, say no._  the voice urged, but once again he ignored it.

 

Nobody had ever asked him what he wanted, and maybe he should not indulge in her.  Maybe he should send her away, but her light captured him.  It was addicting to be around, in the short time that he’s been around it, and because of that, he does not want her to leave.

 

Quickly, he wiped away his tears, eager and excited. “Can you play with me?” it was a simple request.  Someone to play with, someone who’d follow him around and play the games he wanted to play.

 

She nods her head, smiling bright and wide, and reaches out her hand to him. He grabs it and marvels at how small it is in his hand, how warm, how it glows a blinding white light.  A girl with white wings, in a white gown, who emanated light all around, even in the darkest hour in the darkest place.  Even for him.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Mallory.” what a pretty name, he’ll never forget it.


	3. III

**_Chapter 2_ **

 

**_2018 December_ **

 

 

Michael Langdon was an interesting specimen.  The boy-no, the man was more intelligent than he let on.  He could fool you, with his charming smile and the seemingly innocent guise he hid beneath but Mallory knew a brittle mask when she saw one. Could see the cracks in his demeanor, the sudden bouts of melancholy and brooding.  He kept a small notepad, with a hardcover in which he spent endless hours writing in, only God knows what. But he was intent on letting his thoughts and plans seep by way of ink and paper.

 

But when he wasn’t confined to his room, pacing back and forth whilst his mind drifted and mused, he was in the lobby or cafeteria exercising his mind with board games, Mallory as his partner of choice.  He always insists and she can’t help but feel he’s testing her, weighing her merits and finding her wanting. Still, she played along to his games, more out of pity than anything else. After all, this would only be for a moment, before she leaves the hospital, then California altogether.

 

He has somehow managed to coil himself around her daily routine.  Of waking up in the morning and freshening herself in the women's restroom, brushing her teeth with a toothbrush and toothpaste from the Rite Aid down the street before heading to breakfast in the cafeteria, only to find him sitting there, waiting for her with a nice board game from the children’s sector.  

 

He’d initiated their companionship, true, but she had taken him up on the offer.  And she admits, she does enjoy her time with him. It is very lonely in the day when no one has a reason to call her, and even lonelier at night.  When the lights shut off, and only the pale moonlight that manages to peak through the curtains give her comfort. This is how it must feel to be old, she thinks, the last of the last, a pitiful scion, and it makes sense why some would like to die young and beautiful.  

 

She couldn't imagine someone like Michael, as beautiful as he is, old and frail and alone, on his cold deathbed. She could see him, however, in a pool of his own blood, steaming and fresh or maybe no blood at all.  Maybe a bottle of pills and a side of alcohol, how the youth are wont to die these days. He’d be immortal in death, forever young.

 

How he got in here anyways is still beyond her. Her imagination ran wild when it came to it.  Sometimes she just sits and ponders on the scar on his right side when she’s bored enough but she never has the courage to pry the truth from him.

  


The nurses ask why she doesn't just leave and come back when it’s time to pick up her mother, but Mallory refuses to leave the woman’s side.  Not when she’d been so close to death, and was barely alive now. Mallory was content with sleeping on the stiff cushioned couch beneath the thin cotton and woolen covers the staff gave her if it meant she could keep her mother safe and above all else alive.

 

She called Cordelia, letting her know that she'll return soon enough but the Supreme was in no hurry to rush her, forever an understanding and patient woman.

 

Sleeping in the hospital has brought back every haunting memory that feels too strong, too real to just be a simple dream.  But depriving herself of sleep was a death sentence within itself, and so despite her reluctance, she slept.

 

_The sky was grey, covered in thick clouds that rained ash.  The air was hot and humid, with a sting that watered the eyes, and infiltrated the lungs better than any cancer. Fallen debris and a thousand broken pieces of the grand foundations that once kissed the sky littered the ground, as soft as grass.  In the distance, fires raged and so did chaos in the streets that remained. Screams rose higher and higher, before going still. A tree stood proudly, with a dark, sweet fruit, while a murder of crows and ravens hovered around it, taking their share. It was disquieting, but she found the sight beautiful.  That amidst all the madness, joy could still be found, life could still be cherished._

 

_“I’d rather chase them away and take the fruit for myself.” the boy said suddenly, a sneer marring his beautiful face.  They sat on the ruined ground, shoulder to shoulder. She in white and he in black._

 

_Once upon a time, that response would have startled her, but she’d long grown used to it.  Michael wasn't a good person, she wasn't daft enough to believe otherwise no matter how much she tried to find that dying light._

 

_“Would you at least leave the rotten fruit behind for someone else to eat?”_

 

_The boy chuckled, eyes heavy with a particular glint as he gazed on at the tree. “No.  Why would I do that? When you can just…” he waved toward her nonchalantly. “Make them fresh again, maybe even make something new.”_

 

_“Would you share, at least?  If you were full and there was more left?”  Michael looked at her then, his stare long and hard, sultry and intent._

 

_“I would share with you Mallory.”  Michael wasn't a good person, but he wasn't bad either._

 

Mallory woke to the sound of beeping machines and faint breathing. Sounds she had long grown used to. It was still night, the hospital quiet and nearly void of life. She leaned up on her elbows, the couch dipping in response, trying to adjust her eyes to the dark. And became paralyzed with fear at the figure that stood at the corner of the room.  She could see it's-his shape, lean and tall, staring dead at her. Could feel his gaze carved into her skin.

 

The amygdala part of the brain settled into a deep freeze, to unstable to fight or flight after waking from the cusp of sleep.  Her tongue might as well have shriveled up and rolled to the back of her throat to because she could not speak. What would she say anyhow to the stranger that was steadily making his way to her? The air was thick, sweet and rotten like a batch of roses. It made her head feel as if it were stuffed with wool.

 

She felt a hand gently grab her arm, a new weight shifting on the couch, a cool and heat hovering above her. “Mallory?” She let out a shaky exasperated breath, not quite sure if she should be relieved yet. It was just Michael.  Mallory knows his voice well, has heard it long enough to know whom it belongs to, both in life and sleep.

 

“W-what are you doing in here Michael? It's too late to play games.” she was all too aware of his hand lingering on her arm.

 

“But I had a bad dream,” he reasoned. “And I don't want to go back to sleep.”

 

“What does that have to do with me?”

 

He flinched at the harshness of her voice.

 

“I don't want to be alone, and you're the only one I can go to.”

 

Her disposition softened, vexation and fear fading away.

 

“Come with me,” he said, letting go of her arm, fingers trailing down her skin to take her hand. The second time their hands have ever touched. Something happened then, a feeling like no other, cold and warm, electrifying even. Something that persuaded her to go, in spite of everything that screamed in her head, that warned her not to.

 

* * *

 

 

They raced down the dimly lit halls, he in black combat boots, she in sandals. Holding hands all the while, as he pulled her along. She couldn't help but stare at their joined hands or bite back the comfort it gave her, the sense of familiarity.

 

It was strange to feel this way. She vaguely recalls ever having feelings for a boy, ever wanting to be around one or one wanting to be around her. A stolen kiss beneath a tree, one that tasted of the cotton candy from the Orange County Fair aunt Val had dropped them off at. This was different, however, more than just a high school crush, perhaps nothing romantic at all.  It was deeper than that, something spiritual, a bond old and true and ancient.

 

They raced up a flight of stairs, taking two steps at a time. “Where are we going?” She asked breathlessly but thrilled for the first time in a long time. It didn't matter that her thighs stung and chest burned, or that she could barely keep up.

 

“You’ll see.” Was his only response.

 

* * *

 

 

They went to the stars, the sky, and the moon. All from the flat surfaced roof of the hospital, a wide and extensive hard granite.  Side by side, for there was no other way to take it in. They gazed longingly at the heavens for hours, brushing off the cold and discomfort in favor of looking on. She could feel his hard lean body beside her, the energy that flowed in waves, both light, and dark. Grey. And her?  There was a heat of excitement, of desire to be around him, one that hadn't been there before. Ready to combust like a dying star. He was beautiful beneath the pale moonlight, the moonglow painting his skin an eerie white and hair a startling silver, eyes a bright crystal blue. No man should be this beautiful, this innocent. A twisted enigma of good and bad, right and wrong.  And she knows the bad is there, the wrong lurking beneath his well-practiced facade, she just has yet to see it.

 

Is he like me? Pretending to be something he’s not? An imposter stealing another's life?  There was a girl buried beneath the magic, the powerful light that consumed her. The real girl, a normal girl, the true owner of this vessel Mallory inhabits. The human half that people so rarely see. It is her life that Mallory leads and sometimes she wonders if she should let go and let that girl fully take over.

 

“Where are you from Michael?” The question could have meant anything.  Sometimes she wishes the wings on her back would return to her, no matter how ugly and big and obnoxious, just to touch the sky and dance with the stars. Just to go home.

 

He doesn't respond, just looks down at his hands, too ashamed to tell her. But she has an inkling. Can tell by the way he smells, how cold his skin is, as cold as a corpse. How his eyes darken to a deep onyx when frustrated. Or maybe it was all in her head and she was having one of her moments again, projecting her own fears and insecurities onto him.

 

“Nowhere.”  

 

She hearkened, leaning closer to listen, fixating her eyes onto him.

 

“I’m from nowhere. I have no one to go back to, not really. I’m alone, I live alone.” that was all he dined to say. He looked fit to cry, voice filled with pain and bitterness, and her chest twisted at the sight. For all that Mallory has been moved about all her life, she has always had a place to go, someone to turn to.  Who did Michael have? _‘You’re the only one I can go to’._

  


“The thing you did the other day, with the ball,” she started. “You know that wasn't normal right? Maybe you're a witch...no, a warlock.  I know there’s a school somewhere, that’ll take you in. Teach you and train you.” She recalls Miss Cordelia speaking on them briefly, the male counterpart to witches.

 

More silence followed, his dilated eyes never leaving the sky. They were filled with spite almost. As if he were ready to curse God himself. What did he see that she didn't? _We live in the same world, and yet see two different things when we look at the stars,_ she thought. 

 

“Can you teach me, Mallory?” He asked suddenly. “Teach me what you do?”

 

“You mean magic?”

 

He looked at her then, lips pursed and eyes sharper than steel and as hard as granite. “I mean everything.” the words left no room for discussion.

 

* * *

 

 

In the beginning, the one thing Michael liked most about Mallory, was that she didn't want to change him, not really.  No, she only sought to understand him, and that in of itself lit a path on a long dark road. Her essence was enough to draw the light out of him, without her even trying to, and it was entirely up for him to decide what to do with it.

 

It was hard not to be drawn to her, for her beauty was otherworldly when she was in her true form, a girl-child composed of inhumane loveliness. Her wings were the most entrancing, the way they’d open up when she was excited or happy, how warm they were when wrapped around him during the coldest nights. Mallory had been his friend, his companion. The only one who truly understood.  They were both vessels put on this earth, to be used at the whims of their gods. People loved the idea of them, but not them. Mallory was going to be the savior to conqueror darkness and Michael was going to be the darkness that brought the end of days. Their lives have been led by prophecies, even when they were completely oblivious to them, and in the end, they’d bring about each other's downfall.  The irony, that a bond would be formed between the champions of light and darkness, of god and devil. How their masters roared in protest, their fathers raging at the rebellion of two kindred spirits together alas. This had defied everything they had wanted, had blown every piece off of their chess board. No longer were Michael and Mallory their little pawns, weapons in a feud that has gone on for a thousand years, long before he and she came about.

 

Something had had to be done, the irony, that in separating their children, god and the devil had come together on that one little thing. She was there for a moment, and then she was gone.  Mallory, his angel, his light.

 

For all that it was a few months for him, he’d felt every year that drifted by without her ever caring to remember him.  They’d forged a bond that exceeded the laws of time itself, that transcended the bounds of space, and she had left her end cold, had let her god win when Michael had tried to fight back against his. Had left him in an alliance that couldn't simply be broken. He was hers and she was his, and they were a being in and of itself.  She had no right, no right.

 

Even in his star gazed fascination of her, he’d wanted to corrupt that light, that blind faith, had wanted to taint her, to put the seed of darkness in her as she’d put the fruit of life in him.  And in all those years, those long years, he’d been with her how she’d been with him.

 

A presence that she had yet to identify, the drop of ink that stained her white conscious.  Every horrible thought, every ounce of anger and bitterness was his own, manifested into her.  In truth, those intrusive thoughts had always been there, more of the world's fault than his, but he was the match that ignited every moment of passion.  The rage, the lust, the envy.

 

He’d been there when she shared her first kiss with another.  The things that they did, the stolen moments they had beneath the stars,  lost in wild abandon in Mallory’s clumsy attempts to be reckless had been at Michael’s own command, little seedlings he’d planted in her head.  She’d never see him, but oh was his presence strong. He had made himself suffer and watch, had felt every touch. Every wet sloppy kiss, the hand that was slowly edging its way further and further up her thigh and to the soft cotton lining of her panties.  And when the suffering was too much to bare he’d put the thought into her head to strike the boy hard and red, with a force not entirely her own.

 

He’d loved her and hated her all at once.  Had thought how it’d feel to wrap his strong hands around her delicate little neck and squeeze and squeeze until he heard that satisfying sickening crunch. Michael Langdon was a jealous man. Yes, he knows he influenced her, he made her do it, had put those wanton thoughts in her head, yes yes. But the satisfaction of corrupting her, little by little made up for it.

 

He’d been there when she set her... father aflame.  And why shouldn’t she have? The man wasn't her real father anyhow, just some lowly scum who succumbed to drinking and raping his wife.  How the man's blood must've burned to know that another had laid with her, an angel she claimed. Michael had understood him almost, but that empathy had ended when it came to Mallory. Why shouldn't she have gotten angry, why shouldn't she have defended herself, why shouldn’t she have been cruel when the man was cruel to her? Because it was a sin? Because it was morally wrong and she should have turned the other cheek and the man was her father and, oh did he love her once?  Michael pissed on that, in fact, he had helped her start the flame.

 

That house had been just as deadly as the one he still dwelled in.  Christ this and Christ that, it was fucking with her mind. She was crumbling, he saw it, felt it.  A monster, she had called herself, a monster of all things, because of her most beautiful feature that the world would have her feel ashamed of.  Her mother was a raging lunatic, a fanatic, waiting to use Mallory for some divine godly plan, waiting to sacrifice her own daughter for the sake of a world that’d sooner tear her protective wings to shreds. And the man Mallory called father was a drunken fool, a madman, it was only a matter of time before her “father” would start looking at her the way he looked at her mother. It had been time to set her free.  Of course, no good deed goes unpunished, but it was a small price to pay. The attack had happened, when his astral body left his physical one to go visit his angel.

 

That bitch, _mother_ , wouldn't have dared tried it had he been awake, but she caught him unaware, in a deep stupor, and he’d woken to the feel of a sharp pain on his side.  He had brought the flames back with him when he woke and there was hell to pay.

 

Michael had made a deal with his father, his true father, many oaths and vows that intersected the other.   If he could have Mallory, if Michael could have his angel, he’d bring destruction to the world, to humanity. Sup on the hearts of innocents. He’d start a thousand wars, set off a thousand bombs. He’d dry the seven seas and leave the fish to rot and stew in the air, he’d freeze the earth twice over before turning it into flame and ash, he’d travel to the depths of the world, to the very ends of hell and tear it all asunder if it meant he could have her, if it meant he could get back to her.  And he’d be the king of ashes, the prince of darkness, building a world anew out of chaos and destruction and every deadly sin there is if only she could rule it by his side. It was their future, their destiny, their fate, he knew it was because they had gone and saw for themselves.

 

 _Life is hell but heaven is a place on Earth with you,_ he thought with want and longing.  Mallory was still Mallory, even in her physical form. Dressed in a white summer dress with long lace sleeves, golden highlights in her brown hair that complemented her dark hazel eyes. It was truly meant to be, he and her, him and she, together. What were the likes that'd he’d find her here, of all the places? Tending to her mother, using her power, her light to bring the undeserving woman back. He knew it was her, had felt it in the air, and when he saw her in person for the first time in a very long time he saw a brief glimpse of her true form, the white angel. Apart of Michael was frightened of the power she wielded, afraid of what that meant for the world he wished to wrought havoc upon.  But he knew better now. They’d make a new world together. She’d bring life anew, beings of her own creation and he’d destroy the ones that weren't needed, burn away all the hypocrisy and lies, create a new set of laws and do away with the old ones.

 

She was the sun and he the moon, and when they held hands his soul felt fit to sore right out of his body in glee.  This is how it was meant to be, but now it was steadily coming to an end again, separated once more.

 

Mallory has been with him, ever since that night on the rooftop, their bond rekindled.  It was to the point that she sought him out, talked to him about everything and nothing at all.  And he was content on listening to her speak, could listen to her go on for hours on end. The fear, the reluctance had melted away like dew and he had his friend again.  She taught him what she could, in the little time they had.

 

He scribbled idly in his book beneath the writings, the poems, and drawings of his imagination and dreams, all of them about his destiny.  Sometimes he even took the bus to the nearby junkyard, filled with rusted metals and broken relics that he could piece back together, and he always scribbled down his designs and thoughts. The pen twisted violently on the thin lined paper, waning under the pressure and heavy ink.  

 

“So...Michael was your name right?” the woman spoke. A tall and athletic woman, the complete opposite of Mallory and yet the two were related, and above all else close. Val wore her hair up in a messy styled bun, hair a dirty blonde and eyes a penetrating blue.  She wore simple and bland colors, black pencil skirts and white blouses, a grey blazer or a trench coat depending on the weather. Her looks were sharp and strong instead of soft and delicate, and he could only guess she was the runt of the litter when it came to Mallory’s brown haired and hazel eyed family.  The woman has been coming in for the past few days, the second week of Mallory’s stay, checking up on her niece and was disgruntled whenever she saw him around. She tried to put on a sweet smile, but she failed in that endeavor, her face was too dominant for that.

 

In truth, Michael actually liked her personality.  Blunt and straightforward, no nonsense whatsoever. Could probably command an army if she wanted.  He just didn't need her commanding an army against him, or staring at him like some strange insect newly discovered.

 

He nodded his head and she smiled one of her tight smiles in response.

 

“You two are friends correct?” she folded her arms, looming over him.  He sat on the cushioned couch, where he had been talking to Mallory about spells and hidden covens hours before the woman arrived.  Now Mallory was downstairs, checking out with her barely conscious mother. She’d been expecting her grandmother, and was just as surprised as he was when the blond haired woman popped up out of the blue.

 

He nodded again, clenching his jaw.

 

“Oh, how long have you two known each other?”

 

Michael pondered on whether he should nod again or speak. He chose the latter. “For years.”

 

“You have other friends?” she countered.

 

“She’s my only friend.”

 

She wanted to say more but before she could Mallory walked in, breathless. Val smiled at her niece.  “The nurse is waiting downstairs with mom. I filled out the paperwork and everything.”

 

“Good. Are you ready to go, Mally?” Michael tried not to cringe at the nickname.

 

Mallory looked hesitant to respond, eyes flickering between him and Val. The woman didn't miss a beat.

 

“Michael, isn't today your check out day as well?  Perhaps we can give you a ride home young man. Wouldn't that be nice, Mally? Maybe even invite him over for dinner.” she spoke, eyes sheening with a hidden intent. “You two are old friends, aren't you?”

 

Mallory smiled, oblivious to her aunt ’s sickly sweet words. “Yeah! I mean, if Michael’s cool with it.” she looked at him, almost pleadingly. And it was hard to say no, to refuse her anything with those deep magnetic pools of gold.


	4. IV

**_Chapter 3  
_ **

**_pride.i_ **

The table was cut from rich rosewood, sanded and polished to perfection, with a thick tablecloth made from a teal fabric draped over it. The way it felt beneath the fingertips, tough yet smooth, he could tell it wasn’t anything store-bought, at least not recently. It was an old table, fit for an old house.  Many antiques laid about, from the strong wooden couches in the living room to the elaborately designed rugs that sat beneath them, the old decorative paintings of the Starry Night, and the mesmerizing terror that was the Scream.   Even the floorboards were ancient, though enduring, strong enough to last another decade. There was a hearth to, and it was still in use, filling the house with warmth. There were silky drapes hanging over the windows, so thin he could see right through the mellow yellow, and it painted the acres of green grass, darkening sky, and fading clouds gold.

 

The home smelled of cinnamon and pine, the scents of Christmas, and lights hanged out in the front, over the window sill.  But that was it, no Christmas tree, no presents hiding in the basement.  Not even a lot of land nearby that had those things to gaze longingly upon. Grandma had always bought a tree for Michael so that he could decorate it with their shiny red and golden ornaments. There was none of that here, and Michael wondered how Mallory could grow up in such a place until he remembered that her childhood had happened years ago, his had only just ended.

 

A soft withered hand placed a plate of mushroom chicken in front of him, on top of one of the many chilewich placemats. Then another plate was settled down for Mallory, who sat by him, then another for her aunt who sat across from her, and another for her mother who sat beside the aunt.

 

And when the woman was done settling down the plates she took her seat at the head of the table, the matriarch of the family. Three generations of unhappy women.

 

The mother was dazed but conscious, with half-lidded eyes and a lopsided smile on her face as she looked at Mallory.  The two had the same hazel eyes and chestnut hair but the resemblance ended there. The woman’s face was long, with narrow features that must’ve fit her face nicely once upon a time, whereas Mallory’s face was heart-shaped, delicate and soft like a porcelain doll.

 

“Shall we say grace?” the Grandmother posed a silent demand, stretching out her hands for her daughter and granddaughter to take.

 

 _It will burn you_ , the Voice whispered.  _Your ears will bleed and ring with a screech, and they will know you for who you are and you will never have her._

Michael remembers the priest, remembers the scriptures, each word ringing in his ear like a thousand knives screeching against a stone wall. The only way he’d silenced the pain was by silencing the priest, cutting his throat clean open with his mind alone.  Michael could’ve very well done that to Mallory’s family, but as much as he’d rather he would be a fool to think she’d ever love him with her family’s blood on his hands. He felt his stomach roil in trepidation.

 

 _Consider this a lesson for not listening,_  the Voice hissed with violence. Mallory grabbed his hand, and he tried to find strength in her touch.

 

The women closed their eyes and bowed their heads in prayer as they spoke in unison.  

 

“Heavenly father thank…”

 

Immediately Michael tried to drown their voices out, focused on any and everything that wasn’t those god-awful words.  Instead, he closed his eyes and zoomed in on all of their thoughts, for they were loud and easy to tread.

 

The mother’s thoughts weren’t on the prayer at all. A little film played in her head, a moment in time from years past with little Mallory and a day at the park. It was an endless never-ending loop. The woman’s mind was a broken record, not really worth saving in the end.  Val was all tense and unforgiving at the end of the table, angry at whatever it was- be it an old feud or envy against Mallory’s mother, that set her and her sister apart in her mother’s eyes.  Other than that she was suspenseful of the boy she’d invited to dinner. That was a problem he’d deal with later. The grandmother was completely indifferent to everything, of the tension brewing at the table, of one daughter who’s become somewhat of a simpleton and the other bitter, and Michael wondered if she felt at all.  Old age has taught her not to care about most things she has no control of.  And Mallory, his sweet, sweet angel, was actually focused on praying.  So much that he had to back away from her open-field of a mind, so easy to sink into.

 

The prayer ended as soon as it started, the women digging into their meals, but Michael found he wasn’t really hungry, to begin with. Mallory let go of his hand, despite how much he internally protested against it.

 

An intense silence pressed in, with none deigning to speak.  It was almost ritualistic, how they all ignored each other in favor of solitude.  Something tells him that maybe Mallory’s mother was the light of the family, the one to melt the ice and bring warmth in its place.  But that light has since dimmed, and the torch has passed to Mallory for she is the first to speak.

 

“I really like the academy. Miss Cordelia is a kind woman, and the girls are very friendly,” she stated.

 

“Good,” the grandmother asserted. “Because you’re going back as soon as feasibly possible, Mallory.  Why you thought you had any say in coming back here is beyond me.” she settled her fork down, pointing a slim narrowed finger at Mallory.  Michael would love nothing more than to watch it go up in flames. “Now when you return, I want you to thoroughly apologize to Cordelia for your mishaps, and for leaving so suddenly without permission.”

 

Mallory remained silent in response, content on being the timid obedient granddaughter until Michael reached through their bond to rouse her anger.  _You’re not a prisoner or a slave, and she is not your master.  Who is she to tell you what to do?_

“It’s a school, not a prison.” she spat back, with just as much bite in her voice.  The table went into a silent shock.

 

Mallory looked shocked herself, for back talking.  It was her voice, but not her words.  Still, she continued on at his insistence.

 

“Besides, I want to stay for a little while to take care of mom.  She needs me right now, and I’m not abandoning her again.”

 

The old woman’s brown eyes darkened. “Are you suggesting that I can’t take care of my own child or that I took her away from you and left her in the fray?  If so, you are gladly mistaken. Separating the both of you was both for your own good. She’s not you’re responsibility, Mallory.”

 

“Oh, because you’ve done such a good job with her. So much that she was nearly on her deathbed.  Had I not came she would’ve died on her living room floor, alone.” Mallory pursed her lips, determined to defy and disobey, and he loved it. “No, I’m not leaving yet. And you can’t make me leave.  I’ll just keep coming back until-”

 

“Mally, sweetheart, I’m fine-” the mother tried to chime in but to no avail. Her voice was to low and slurred with each word spoken, the first she’d spoken all day.  

 

“Have you lost your mind little girl?”

 

Val slammed her hand down on the table, causing a light thud. It was enough to garner everyone’s attention. “Please, not now mother. There really is no need.”  

 

The grandmother scoffed, shooting Mallory one last scolding look before focusing on her meal. Mallory looked down at her hands, clenching onto the hems of her dress just above the knees, knuckles white and red.  He found himself grabbing one of them, thumb running over the back of her hand, over the veins and bones, as the rest of his four digits moved in a circular motion within her palm.  _It’s okay,_  the gesture said.  _You did nothing wrong._  He could see her shoulders drop a little, tension rolling off in waves.

 

Val smiled wolfishly, teeth gritted.  Then she fixed her feral eyes on him, a lioness in human form.  He returned the look back, with ease, a cold smile creeping upon his face.

 

“God, Michael.  I can only imagine what you must think of us now, arguing like a bunch of old maids.  Mind you we aren’t usually like this.  It must be the cold weather.” she chuckled lightly, but there was no humor in the tone. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself.  I’m sure there is much to know.”

 

“Where do I begin?” he laughed. “Well, I grew up in Country Club Park. I’ve ever only had my grandma, but she passed recently, and I don’t have any other family. So, I’m on my own now.” his voice grew demure, but he was anything but.  The best way to lie was to give half of the truth.

 

It was all a ploy, an act to soothe her suspicions, whatever they may be.  For all he knew, she could just be an overprotective aunt looking after her niece.  And could he fault her in caring for Mallory for all that he wanted her for himself?

 

“No family at all, not even a distant relative?” Val inquired, leaning forward on the table.

 

“None that I know of. It doesn’t matter really, I prefer being alone.  Though I do enjoy Mallory’s company.  She’s-well, she’s my friend.”

 

Mallory looks at Michael then, surprised, but then she smiles, squeezing his hand.

 

“Hm, is that so.” The woman was not impressed. “So, what school do you go to?”

 

At that, his mind froze.  He hadn’t been to school in a few years, didn’t even know which school to go to if he were to re-attend. 

“He should be going to Hawthorne- I think that’s what it’s called,” Mallory hastily replied in his place.

 

The woman frowned, looking between the two of them. “Hawthorne?  As in the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men?” then a chilling smile crept onto her face. “So we have a warlock in our midst? Interesting, unsettling but interesting.  How did you two meet again?”

 

“Oh, would you stop with the twenty-one questions, Val.” the grandmother quipped abrasively. “I think we’re all growing tired of it.  So what if the boy is a warlock, leave it be.  And Mallory I haven’t forgotten about what I said, you’re returning to New Orleans.”

 

Michael felt his blood run cold.  New Orleans?   He wasn’t well versed in geography, but he was smart enough to know that there wasn’t any New Orleans in any part of California. He hadn’t thought her academy was that far. Michael had no means to travel that far, no money, no passport.  _Go to Hawthorne,_ the voice whispered, urged.   _They will give you everything you need._

But Michael didn’t want to travel all the way to New Orleans just to see her.  He wanted her to stay here, in California, forever. The mother was looking at him now, a feverish glint in her eyes, both daunting and grave, as if she’s just noticed his presence at the table, and didn’t like it.

 

“I’m going to return grandma, I promise.  I just want to take care of mom for a bit.”

 

Val looked at the time on her phone.  “Would you look at that, it’s rather late. It’s time for you to go home Michael, wouldn’t want you staying up late into the hours of the night.”

 

“I’ll take him home instead Aunt Val.” Mallory let go of his hand before coming to a stand, smoothing down her dress.

 

“Are you sure Mallory?  Because I don’t mind doing it and I thought we all initially agreed on me taking him home, you know, to make sure he actually gets there.”

 

Mallory merely rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. I think I’m capable enough to drive on my own. And I’ll take mom home to.  Grandma do you still have that blow-up mattress?  Nevermind, I’ll check in the attic.”

 

“That’s not what I meant but okay,” Val mumbled, more to herself than anyone else. “The keys to the Range Rover are on the counter, and I want it back in one piece Mallory. I’m only staying in town for a few days but after that, I am leaving, the last thing I need to deal with is a wreck.”

 

* * *

 

 

The house-or more like the apartment was an absolute wretch.  It resembled a box more than anything else, with a living room that led to a small kitchen, and a bedroom in the far back. The carpet was covered in cigarette buds and empty bottles, with a sickening hum that just sat and never abated. He sat on the couch that was wrapped up in a suffocating plastic, watching as Mallory opened up the long rectangular windows.  The girl stood there for a moment, staring aimlessly into the night out the last window she’d opened, the shadow of her silhouette reflected on the floor from the moonlight, then proceeded to pick up the bottles, tossing them in a bag before grabbing a broom to sweep up the floor.  She looked intent, perplexed, bothered.  Michael sensed a conflict in her, anger and regret, guilt and disgust, at whom had yet to be discerned.  But her eyes were far away, lost in another place, another time. A personal hell.  She looked but didn’t really see, hummed to a tune she didn’t really care for either.  Mallory, his broken little angel, the source of her problems nestled away in the bedroom, soundly asleep.  He had half the mind to go back there, and just a touch of his finger alone would spread cancer in the woman’s system that’d kill her overnight.

 

The broomstick began to groan beneath her tight knuckled grip, the brush of the broom moving to and fro bristly across the stiff surface.

 

“Mallory?  _Mallory?_ ” he called innocently. “Mallory do you need help?” all movement stilled.  She looked up from the floor, gracing him with a smile of acknowledgment.

 

“Sorry, I was somewhere else. Um, you can help if you want. Maybe hold the dustpan down as I sweep the trash into it.”

 

He nodded eagerly.

 

They went on like that for a while, her setting the place to rights with him by her side to carry out the mundane task. Taking out the trash, drying the dishes, getting the covers to lay out as she blew up the mattress, plopping down onto it as soon as it was firm.  She was exhausted by the end of their cleaning spree, and she claimed she still had to wipe down the stained walls tomorrow.  She sat on the edge of the mattress, face buried in the palms of her hand. He sat on the floor in front of her, legs crisscrossed.

 

“Crap, I still have to take you home.  I’m sorry, I just lost track of everything.” she tiredly ran her fingers through her hair.

 

“It’s alright,” he assured.  Michael hadn’t wanted to go back home anyway. “You look really tired, you should sleep.  I can stay here for the night and you can take me home in the morning.”

 

“Are you sure?” she leaned back into the mattress, sighing in relief the moment her back hit the covers.  Her mind was already made up, and so was his.

 

“Anything for you Mallory.”  

 

The night breeze crept into the living room, and she shivered. He looked at the thick blankets, at the sea blue, and green patterns, then stood up to pull the covers over her frame.  By the grace of his mind, the lights flickered off, and after he took off his shoes and jean jacket, he slipped beneath covers beside her, arms slithering around her waist, encompassed in her warmth.

 

Michael fell asleep to the lull of her light breaths, the fall, and rise of her chest, a smile on his angular face.

 

* * *

**_  
_ **

****

**_2018 December_ **

The house was covered in thick spindly vines that crawled up the red brick walls, overgrown grass, and weeds that tugged at the ends of Mallory’s dress.  

 

The morning had been a long one before she even managed to make it out of the house. She’d taken a much-needed shower, and changed into one of her casual gowns.  The seventies styled easy wrap white dress with a geometric pattern of red flowers encircled by small green leaves and thin vines that swopped diagonally to the hems of her dress, that reached a few inches above her ankles, and a v-line that rested between her bosom.  She wore her two prized necklaces, the ones with the silver star and moon, and a pair of black ankle boots.  Her hair was an ombre of brown that gave way to gold, resting below the nape of her neck, crinkly and wet from the shower.

 

She’d cooked a breakfast, an easy meal of toast and scrambled eggs, and watched wearily as her mother took bite after tremble handed bite.  It got to the point where Mallory had to feed the woman herself, that in itself a trying task. Then she went on to bathe the woman and saw how weak and frail, and realized with a horrible clarity that she’d restored life and youth, but not health.  Maybe she could try later… Or, maybe her mother has always been a frail woman.  She didn’t know anymore.

 

“It was because of you Mally.  I had you when I was only sixteen, not the age any girl should be having a baby.” her mother had croaked when Mallory dared to ask. “Giving birth to you has drained most of the life out of me, but I don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

 

In the background of Mallory’s turmoil was Michael, always smiling, willing to lend a helping hand.  She still shuddered from the way she found him, _them,_ when she awoke.

 

When Mallory woke it was to his face buried in the crook of her neck, legs entwined with hers while her upper body was encaged within the embrace of long, firm arms, toned and strong. His chest, his body, pressed into the back of her.  And something else too, hard and hot and- Oh,  _Oh. she had thought, with terror and excitement._  But when he woke, nothing happened ( she hadn’t known whether to feel relieved or disappointed, of all the things to feel), he simply let her go, oblivious to his own arousal.  Did he even know what lust was? Of course not.  Michael Langdon was far too naive.

 

So naive, he didn’t even notice the way she blushed whenever he casually took hold of her hand.  Like now, as he guided her to his front door, hand in hand. He’d insisted on inviting her inside and she willingly obliged, despite every cell, joint and hair in her body screaming at her to turn the other way.  To him, they were just friends simply holding hands. She shouldn’t feel bitter about that, having known him for only two weeks or so, but she does.  And it confuses her, the way he makes her feel.  At first, it was a spiritual thing, -and not all soulmates need be lovers- but now it was a physical thing.  She could feel herself gradually growing attached to him with the more time she spent with him, and it wasn’t hard for Mallory to grow attached to things.  The girl feared what this would do to her emotions, her state of mind when she inevitably leaves California.  Would he even care if she left right at this moment or would he simply shrug and go on with his day?  There was no telling.  

 

The door creaks and groans as he swings it open, and the moment her foot passes the threshold, the hairs on her arms and neck come to stand. Little dust particles danced in the pool of light from the window near the entrance, but everywhere else was dark, with long shadows.

 

 _I should not be here, no living creature should,_  and yet she continued to follow him, flinching when the door closed on its own volition. It smelled like burnt roses, the ozone before a storm, and decaying leaves in autumn.  It smelled like him, and his scent carried throughout the house. Or maybe it was vice verse, the house had imprinted on him.  They climbed the stairs, before walking down the mouth of the hall that led to infinite rooms.

 

She did not feel the comfort he felt walking down the corridor, could not shake that penetrating feeling of being constantly watched.  Despite that, it was a beautiful home, hauntingly so.  The ones that’d you’d read about in a gothic novel, with walls painted in tragedy, that groaned from bitterness and heartache. This house was much the same, a rare thing to find in sunny California, even in the life of a girl like her, a girl whose house was reduced to burnt timber and soot by her own hand.

 

“So you live here by yourself?” a stupid question to ask, one that she already knew the answer to, but she needed verification.  

 

Michael nodded his head, his strawberry blonde curls bobbing to the beat of his stride as he led them to his room, a forlorn thing with a brilliant heat that instantly made her sweat. The walls were coated with a dusty blue-grey paint, only darkened more by the shadow that seemed to hang over the room.  There were three wooden arches as well, embedded into the walls and ceiling, and between two of them was a shut door. Beside it was a computer sitting on top of a small desk cluttered with pencils and paper and a green lamp.  On the side of the entrance, a board adorned the wall, covered in sketches and doodles, no doubt Michael’s.  Across the room dwelled his bed with a metal headboard, and behind that were two windows with white blinds.  Sheets were splayed on the floor, with a fan plugged up next to them.

 

He pulled the strings to the blinds, letting in natural light. Then he pulled out a vintage record player, sitting it on the sheets at the foot of the bed, and a box of vinyl discs, the kind her Grandma still has displayed in her living room.  Mallory’s interest was piqued at the sight of them.

 

“Where did you get these from?” she gracefully sat upon the sheets, smoothing down her dress as she did so.

 

“They were my grandma’s,” he responded.  Perhaps it was a trick of the light but she’d sworn she saw his eyes water at the mention of the late woman.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” he smiled, then sat down beside her, their shoulders touching.

 

She pulled the box closer and began to search through it.  There were many classics, most of them being from the sixties or seventies.  The Mommas and Papas, the Zombies, the Turtles, the Beatles. But her hand stopped at the Rolling Stones.  The album cover was a light blue covered in clouds with an abstract picture of the band in the center. Their Satanic Majesties Request, it read.  Michael’s crystal blue eyes gleamed.

 

“This one is my favorite,” his hand reached in the box after her, his long fingers faintly brushing hers as he gently took the album.

 

She watched as he slowly took the disc out, watched the way he handled it with care, afraid the faintest scratch alone would bring it to ruin. Mallory was mesmerized by his hands.  How could something so calloused, long and large as his hands be so gentle, move so elegantly?  Once again, she was struck by his beauty.  The way his pupils focused and dilated, filling out the blue of his eyes, the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted. The light from the window cast one side of his face in shadow, while the other half was highlighted, all the sharp angular edges, the arch of his nose and the cut of his jawline.  He looked to be made out of marble at that moment, one of those greek sculptures come to life. Once again she asked herself how a man could be so beautiful.

 

He placed the record on the turntable, setting it to the right speed, then lifted the tonearm and placed the needle gently on the outermost edge of the record.  The moment the needle grazed the black surface music began to resonate throughout the room.  He skipped the first two grooves, but paused at the third, seemingly content with the choice of song.

 

“I love this song. It reminds me of you,” he looked at her with those piercing blue eyes that could roam the depths of the soul and told her this as if it were the ordinary thing to say.

 

_In another land, where the breeze and the trees and the flowers were blue._

The singer sounded hollow and drowned, but it was loud and clear enough. Perhaps that had been the band’s attention.  Michael laid down on his back, legs stretching out, before pulling her down with him.  The movement caught her off guard, but it mattered little when he nestled his nose in the crook of her neck, much like this morning, deeply inhaling her scent. Or when he slowly threaded his long fingers in the strands of her hair that crowned her head on the floor like a halo. “You smell so sweet,” he whispered, his warm breath ghosting her skin, lips not far behind.  So close, so very close.  

 

A shiver crept over her body, then pooled in her abdomen. She rested her hand there to feel a strange heat and cool.  From above, a girl and a boy laid side by side in the center of the room.  Oblivious to the things that crept in the halls and watched from afar.

 

_I stood and held your hand/ And the grass grew high and the feathers floated by/ I stood and held your hand/ And nobody else’s hand will ever do, nobody else will do/ Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke?/  Much to my surprise/ I opened my eyes._

His other hand trailed on her collarbone, edging its way closer to the valley of her breast, the part her dress so generously exposed.  She wasn’t even wearing a bra, the dress wasn’t the type you wore a bra with. He went down further, to where her hands lay, pushing them away to replace them with his own.

 

“…Michael.” she choked, eyes closed, too caught up in the moment, both terrifying and exciting.

 

Each breath she drew was shaky and unevenly spaced. What is he doing to me?

 

“Only what you want me to do, Mallory.” was his voice always so deep, had it always made her tremble?

 

His hand went no further, only stayed in that particular spot, rubbing circles. The small friction alone made her squeeze her thighs together, trying to repress the building need.

 

“When will you teach me?”  The deepness was gone.

 

Mallory opened her eyes, bending her head to look at him.  “How about now?”

 

_We walked across the sand/ And the sea and the sky and the castles were blue/ I stood and held your hand/ And the spray flew high and the feathers floated by/ I stood and held your hand/  And nobody else’s hand will ever do, nobody else will do/ Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke?/ Much to my surprise/ I opened my eyes._

The song had such a lovely melody,  woozy and otherworldly, with such dreamy elements and sad lyrics that left her on an acid-drenched high.  The type of high that you can only get from a song about two star-crossed lovers, only together in dreams, roaming a completely different realm. It reminds me of you, he said.  Of course, it would.

 

_We heard the trumpets blow/ And the sky turned red when I accidentally said/ That I didn’t know/ How I came to be here, not fast asleep in bed/ I stood and held your hand/ And nobody else’s hand will ever do, nobody else’s hand…_

“Okay,” he says. “We can do it now.”

 

_Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke? I opened my eyes much to my surprise._

* * *

 

 

Do you ever feel things happen exactly the way they are supposed to happen?

 

Every move made, every word spoken, every song played, it was for a reason. Everything, even the smallest of things Michael did had a purpose, a meaning, a message behind it.  One only had to pay attention to see the subliminal stimuli. When he’d played that song, he was telling her that those dreams, those memories were without a doubt real and not a trick of the subconscious mind. A confirmation to what she’d felt she knew. And now she was certain their souls were bonded- linked and chained- it was no longer a flight of fancy in her pretty little head.

 

After spending hours in his home, she didn’t feel so out of place anymore.  She had walked these halls a thousand times before, she knew it in her bones. If anything, the house should be afraid of her not her of it.

 

The house was now alive with magic, crackling in her ears like static. The result of two powerful beings testing the waters before diving in. She’d remembered the little she learned from Miss Cordelia and handed those lessons down to Michael, who excelled in each spell and ability. He was always unsure about each one, but when he did them he took the extra mile and did something more.

 

Magic is often something to be possessed and controlled, but the magic possessed him, controlled him. Perhaps that is what made him so good at it. Magic possessed Mallory too, truth be told. It always has.

 

The sun was past its zenith, and it wouldn’t be long before the moon took its place as the source of light, giving the room that evening gloom. Her mother had taken her medication after breakfast, which should have put her to rest for a few good hours.  Mallory had placed the house phone near the bed stand, phone number on speed dial just in case her mother needed to call. Dinner had to be made, sheets cleaned and walls scrubbed to create a more sanitary area for her mother to be in.  Nothing less would do.  Mallory and Michael’s little waltz was a nice one, but now the dance must end.

 

Yet they sat side by side beneath the crystal chandelier in the living room, in front of the cold empty hearth, and Michael refused to let her leave, always diverting her from the door with one thing or the other.  

 

“Please, just one more spell,” he begged, his head rested on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist as if he were a child. Such a baby.

 

His Rubik’s cube had been set aside after 20 minutes of him showing her the many ways it could be manipulated to a different design instead of the same monotonous one that everyone else did.

 

“I’ll come back tomorrow, I promise, but I need to go home now.  My mother needs me.  I’ve been with you for half of the day.” her voice was stern, leaving no room for any more debate. “Now let me go, Michael, I’m serious.”

 

He stared at her in intense dead silence, not at all pleased with the tone of voice she’d taken with him, and the house itself held its breath.  It lasted for only a second, but it stretched on for hours in her mind.  Then he let go.

 

He let out a bitter, pouty. “Fine.” before racing out the room.  She heard his footsteps receding up the stairs and the distant slam of a bedroom door.

 

She sat there for a moment, in the empty living room, and the almost empty house.  The empty halls that didn’t feel so empty at all when you actually had to walk down them. The floorboards that groaned on their own, and the air that at one moment could turn cold and fester with the smell of rot and then become hot, overpowering the house with the smell of him.  There was a silence that permeated so loud it was hard not to hear. She wondered about the stories the walls could tell, about the things they would say if she urged them to but dare not actually try it.  And then, it made sense why Michael wouldn’t want to be here on his own, why he would want someone to be with him.

 

But she has to leave, she has to. Mallory stands up, making her way to the foyer. The door is right there, and her hand hovers above the doorknob, ready to twist. Mallory, of course, hesitates. She looks at the stairs, knowing where they’ll lead if she goes up. Michael’s little domain.  The least she could do was say good night.  Truth be told she was going to miss having him around her all the time, miss being around him.  Maybe she could get his number?

 

The stairs it was.  She took two steps at a time, moving as fast as she could. And then there was a blur of burning flesh, as red as the bright embers that fell of the skin, speeding across the corridor, children’s laughter following behind it. And then it was gone. She blinked once, blinked twice. A trick of the light or a trick of the mind, she reasoned, maybe tiredness. But not what she thought it was, what she thought she heard and saw.  Was it out of the realm of possibility? No, perhaps not.  Mallory would rather ignore it though.

 

She hurried up the stairs then down the hall until she reached his door and knocked. No response. She knocked again, and still, no response.  “Michael, sweetheart, I swear I’ll come back tomorrow.”

 

There was a short silence before there was a shifting on the bed and the sound of someone drawing closer to the door. Michael opened it slightly, leaving it ajar, and peaked his head through.

 

“But how long will you stay?”

 

“For as long as I can.”

 

He opened the door more, stepping past the threshold.  She almost forgot how tall he was, his childish nature always made her forgetful of his age and height. Mallory barely reached his chest.

 

“I’d rather you stay here forever.”

 

Mallory frowned. She was a little confused and a little worried…and maybe a little touched.

 

“That’s not possible. Nor is it reasonable. We’re friends, right? Well, friends see and talk to each other all the time. We can visit each other or not. We can talk on the phone, we can go to other places too.  Look,” she raised her hand, sticking out her pinky, giving him a genuine smile. “We’ll swear on it.”

 

Michael hesitated at first, a frown marring his beautiful face, but eventually, he relented. Such a child. He wrapped his pinky around hers, gripping tightly.

 

“You swear we’ll always be together?” he asked worriedly.

 

“Cross my heart I hope to die.”

 

Michael returned her smile, showing his white teeth, slightly crooked in the front but in an endearing sort of way. Suddenly, he leaned down, gently placing a kiss on her forehead. As cold as ice on her hot skin.  It left her wanting something more.

 

“Goodnight Mallory.”

* * *

****

****

**_envy.i_ **

It simply wasn’t enough. Maybe it hadn’t truly clicked for her yet, maybe the bond wasn’t as strong on her end as it was on his. He didn’t want to have her around only sometimes, didn’t want to hear her voice for a brief moment over the damn telephone. Michael needed her by his side, forever and infinity. That’s what the bond called for.  He should have gone further when they were laying on his bedroom floor, should have given in to his desires, should have given her his mind, body, and soul completely. Should have kissed her lips instead of her forehead when he’d said goodbye.  They both had wanted it.  But he had to show some form of restraint, and he didn’t want it to be here.  With friend and foe alike watching in their dark corners (and they were always watching, always hiding).  Her moans, her sighs, her body, should only be for his eyes and ears. Michael Langdon was too prideful to have it any other way.

 

 _Liar,_  the voice cackled.  _You were too scared.  You have no idea what you’re doing._

No, he doesn’t, he can’t deny, but he was going to damn well try. He buried his nose in the sheets she laid on, branding her scent into memory.  It still lingered there, the warm vanilla sugar aroma. His sweet flower, his sweet angel. She’d written down her number on the chalkboard before she left, and will soon be awaiting a call.

 

 _You will never truly have her with her mother in the way.  She loves her mother more than she will ever love you._  The voice taunted.

 

“That’s not true,” he muttered into the lorn darkness. The ghost of this house must think he’s a madman if they don’t already. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to swallow down the envy that was steadily brewing in his system.“That’s not true, leave me alone.”

 

 _Yes, it is._  The voice only returned with a vengeance.  _How about, for once, you actually do something useful with your powers, instead of doing those pitiful witchy tricks and gimmicks. Do you know what you are capable of?_

Oh no. “Please no, please just shut up.” he tried covering his ears, but there was no point in that.  Whoever the voice was, whether it be his father or his father’s demonic servants, it was in his head. And it was taking over again. Michael hated not having control, especially over himself.

 

It always started like this, with the faint whispering and hissing.  And then if Michael listened long enough it would go on, filling his head like a toxic gas before it drowns him out and takes over. In those moments, he fades into the dark place and disappears.

 

 _You could bring the greatest mountains to kneel, could bring about the downfall of the greatest nations and their armies, befall millions with plagues and storms, could turn souls into ash if you so wished, yes…souls into ash,_  The Voice seemed to consider the last option, an insidious chuckle resounding in his head.  _And you only need use your mind._

Michael’s body began to tremble as something stronger than adrenaline coursed through his blood, sending chills down his spine.

 

 _You need to push yourself past anything you can do in this realm,_  the Voice reasoned.  _Conquer your ability in the realms that truly matter._

The last time he incinerated souls, it had been in this house, and he’d lost someone he cared for.  Ben Harmon, the father he’d always wanted but never had a chance to have.

 

Michael was paralyzed, something was holding him down. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and darkness consumed him.

 

_Whatever dwells between the realms of man and spirit, a soul should not tread upon. But this was no normal soul if it could even be called that.  A being that dwelled between both worlds and entered both the gates of hell and the gates of life with ease.  A realm that was a dark, hollow replica of both, filled with nothing but the lost and tormented, the damned who have yet to be damned and the saints who have yet to be saved.  The being walked with ease it did, marveling at the moaning and screaming and crying, and sicky-sweet laughter, a herald of a demise._

_This was different.  Michael was still here, this time he had not faded into the dark. The Voice was guiding him in the netherworld, controlling not even his body but his spirit. What else could it control, if it so wished?  He might as well be dumb, deaf and blind._

_There was a gloomy long hall, thick with fog, with an infinite amount of doors, but it only wanted one.  Whatever the being wanted he was obligated to want to, like master and slave._

_He walked, footsteps loud enough for the damned to hear but none would harm him. All knew who his father was, all knew that they belonged to his father, and therefore belonged to him.  He stopped in front of the aforementioned door and opened.  There were other spirits in here. The apartment had a history, despite how recent that history was._

_The girl slept on the mattress in the living room, oblivious to all of them, oblivious to the kindred spirit that walked past her, down the hall and into her beloveds room._

_He and the being looked over the frail body that dwelled there, listened to the leisurely taken breaths that echoed throughout the room. **Do it, Michael, you know what you have to do.**_

__

_It wasn’t as if Michael had a choice. His hands moved on their own, hovering above the woman’s body. An ancient tongue spilled from his lips that sounded like the crackling of ice on a winter lake.  The body began to spasm, the soul coming undone from its vessel. It rose, and rose, becoming an entity of its own, a weak one that didn’t have an ounce of strength to fight back. The spirit levitated, before touching the ceiling, face looking downward below.  The woman’s eyes were wide open, looking down at her body beneath her.  Her eyes flickered toward them then. The flesh that was her lips were sealed shut, becoming a patch of skin beneath the nose.  She wouldn’t be able to scream her way awake, and the rest of her body was under their control. She wouldn’t be able to wriggle her way awake either.  Meanwhile, her physical body was sound asleep._

_Her lips may be sealed but her thoughts are as loud as ever. ‘It’s you, that boy. I knew it, I knew but I couldn't…’ the woman seemed more sound of mind than she did in the physical realm, even under the thumb of his power.  He could smell the fear and the anger but mostly the fear. That cold terror that caused a cold sweat to break out on her physical form. She so desperately wanted to return to it, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t. ‘Stay away from my daughter, stay away from me.’  The woman was crying now, but none would hear her.  Mallory was asleep, lost in her dreams of him.  ‘God save me.’ she pleaded. ‘Mallory save me.’_

_He felt rage, and humor, and regret for what he was about to do.  Other emotions that he was sure wasn’t his own._

_“I’m sorry,”_

_**Are you Michael?** _

__

_“I’m so sorry.”_

_**Is that remorse I hear? Funny, I thought she didn’t deserve the gift of life bestowed by your little angel. Hypocrite, you’re being the very thing you hate.** That was different, he thought._

__

_**It’s always different, isn’t it?**  it spat back venomously.  **Now do it. One finger alone and cancer will spread throughout her body remember?** The Being, the Voice, the Darkness was forever the amplifier of his sinful thoughts._

_And one finger he used. It was almost daunting, how impossibly still he rendered her body. A Metastasis cancer spread as quickly as brushfire, rattling her with tumors and a depressive sickness. The breathing had gone still, and so had the room. Her soul cried out for her daughter, each attempt futile._

_He looked up at her, raising his hands toward her just as he spoke more of the ancient tongue, twisted and olden, more old and powerful than Latin itself. The language of Heaven and Hell. The woman would go to neither. Her soul caught flame, her ashes falling gracefully like snow, and she screamed bloody murder, a scream that no one could her except him. ‘MALLORY’ she screamed, and he laughed a sorrowful laugh, filled with pain and joy and self-disgust. The Voice laughed with him._

_Ben was right, there was no saving him._

When he awoke, it was to the murderous sound of crows.


End file.
